“I will tell Mr. Crawley just now what has occurred to me,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Yes—just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that your first letter might have been written in haste.”
“It was written in haste, my lord; your messenger was waiting.”
“Yes—just so. Well; so I sent him again, hoping that he might be accepted as a messenger of peace. It was a most disagreeable mission for any gentleman, Mr. Crawley.”
“Most disagreeable, my lord.”
“And you refused him permission to obey the instructions which I had given him! You would not let him read from your desk, or preach from your pulpit.”
“Had I been Mr. Thumble,” said Mrs. Proudie, “I would have read from that desk and I would have preached from that pulpit.”
Mr. Crawley waited for a moment, thinking that the bishop might perhaps speak again; but as he did not, but sat expectant as though he had finished his discourse, and now expected a reply, Mr. Crawley got up from his seat and drew near to the table. “My lord,” he began, “it has all been just as you have said. I did answer your first letter in haste.”
“The more shame for you,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may be so worded as to need some apology.”
“Of course it needs an apology,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“But for the matter of it, my lord, no apology can be made, nor is any needed. I did refuse your messenger permission to perform the services of my church, and if you send twenty more, I shall refuse them all—till the time may come when it will be your lordship’s duty, in accordance with the laws of the Church—as borne out and backed by the laws of the land, to provide during my constrained absence for the spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock.”
“Poor people, indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie. “Poor wretches!”
“And, my lord, it may well be, that it shall soon be your lordship’s duty to take due and legal steps for depriving me of my benefice at Hogglestock—nay, probably, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise of my sacred profession!”
“Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken from you,” said Mrs. Proudie. The bishop was looking with all his eyes up at the great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by the power that was exercised over him by the other man’s strength that he hardly now noticed his wife.
“It may well be so,” continued Mr. Crawley. “The circumstances are strong against me; and, though your lordship has altogether misunderstood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in sending my case for trial—although, as it seems to me, you have come to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very theory of our laws—”
“Sir!” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury will may discover me to have been guilty of theft.”
“Of course the jury will do,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Should such verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference will be legal, proper, and necessary. And you will find that, even if it be within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship’s authority, I will oppose no such obstacle. There is, I believe, no appeal in criminal cases.”
“None at all,” said Mrs. Proudie. “There is no appeal against your bishop. You should have learned that before.”
“But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here at Barchester. Nor have you more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I have to turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt me, my lord, your lordship’s ecclesiastical court is open to you. Try it there.”
“You defy us, then?” said Mrs. Proudie.
“My lord, I grant your authority as bishop is great, but even a bishop can only act as the law allows him.”
“God forbid that I should do more,” said the bishop.
“Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your own head,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Peace, woman,” Mr. Crawley said, addressing her at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had already begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who had better be left to take care of the souls at Hogglestock, at any rate till the trial should come on.
“Woman!” said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really intended some personal encounter.
“Madam,” said Mr. Crawley, “you should not interfere in these matters. You simply debase you husband’s high office. The distaff were more fitting for you. My lord, good morning.” And before either of them could speak again, he was out of the room, and through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing beneath the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed the bishop. He had succeeded in crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist.
He started in a spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towards Hogglestock. He did not think of the long distance before him for the first hour of his journey. He had had his victory, and the remembrance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and he went stalking along the road with rapid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs. Proudie and her distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come to him again—not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. And he had resolved what he would do then. When the day of his trial was near, he would himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision might be made for his church, in the event of the verdict going against him. His friend, Dean Arabin, was to be home before that time, and the idea had occurred to him of asking the dean to see to this; but now the other would be the more independent course, and the better. And there was a matter as to which he was not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment. But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop—to the bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace—when the time of his trial should be close at hand.
Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered the first five miles out of Barchester. It was nearly four o’clock, and the thick gloom of the winter evening was making itself felt. And then he began to be fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in the morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he crunched it. There were still ten miles before him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would task him very severely. Farmer Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley Mill till five, and he had got time to reach Framley Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and farmer Mangle between them had cozened him. No; he would persevere and walk—walk, though he should drop upon the road. He was now nearer fifty then forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told upon him. He knew that though his strength was good for the commencement of a hard day’s work, it would not hold out for him as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles in the dark night would be very sad with him. But still he persevered, endeavouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph.
He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the Mill, waiting in expectation that Mr. Crawley might come to him. But the poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door.
“Oh, mamma, here is papa!”
“But where is the cart? I did not hear the wheels,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill.” Then the wife took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face. “He has walked all the way, and he is ill,” said Jane.
“No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself.” Then Mrs. Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile; and, obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed.
“I do not think the bishop will send for me again,” he said, as she tucked the clothes around him.
CHAPTER XIX
Where Did it Come From?
When Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared at Hogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day’s services. “I think we need fear no further disturbance,” Mr. Crawley said to his wife—and there was no further disturbance.
On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and from Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr. Crawley had risen not much the worse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a full account of what had taken place. “A poor weak man,” he said, speaking of the bishop. “A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied.”
“I have always heard that she is a violent woman.”
“Very violent, and very ignorant; and most intrusive withal.”
“And you did not answer her a word?”
“At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind her distaff.”
“What—really? Did you say those words to her?”
“Nay; as for my exact words I cannot remember them. I was thinking more of the words with which it might be fitting that I should answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind her distaff.”
“And how did she behave then?”
“I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied; and why should I tarry to behold the woman’s violence? I had told him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I went without much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieux on mine. They had told me that I was a thief—”
“No, Josiah—surely not so? They did not use that very word?”
“I say they did—they did use the very word. But stop. I am wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the bishop’s mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a conviction, and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there was evidence sufficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my lord’s ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country. He was very ignorant—puzzle-pated, as you may call it—led by the nose by his wife, weak as water, timid and vacillating. But he did not wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told me to my face that I was a—thief.”
“May she be punished for the cruel word!” said Mrs. Crawley. “May the remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily upon her heart!”
“‘Vengeance is mine. I will repay,’ saith the Lord,” answered Mr. Crawley. “We may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return blow should be given only while the smart remains. She hurt me then; but what is it to me now, that she called me a thief to my face? Do I not know that, all the country round, men and woman are calling me the same behind my back?”
“No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say the thing is very strange—so strange that it requires a trial; but no one thinks you have taken that which was not your own.”
“I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. My poor head suffers so—so many grievous thoughts distract me, that I am like a child, and know not what I do.” As he spoke thus he put both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in anxious thought—as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear with accuracy upon past events. “It could not have been mine, and yet—” Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech.
“And yet?”—said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps yet save him, with assistance from their friends.
“When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been mad.”
“From which man, love?”
“From the man Soames—he who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times when I am not—sane. I am not a thief—not before God; but I am—mad at times.” These last words he spoke very slowly, in a whisper—without any excitement—indeed with a composure which was horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible because she was so well convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money might have come into his possession. That there were times when his reason, once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide him right, she had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. But he himself had never before hinted his own consciousness of this calamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of himself and of his own state, that she had been unable even to ask him a question about the money, lest he should suspect that she suspected him. Now he was speaking—but speaking with such heart-rending sadness that she could hardly urge him to go on.
“You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be,” she said, “and that has been the cause.”
“There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit—and then there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all.”
“With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first.”
“With me, Mary, it has been all of them—every one! My spirit is broken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenour amidst the ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if God helps me, I will prevail.” Then he took up his hat and cloak, and went forth among the lanes; and on this occasion his wife was glad that he should go alone.
This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs. Crawley during those days said nothing more to her husband on the subject which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions about the money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the false excuses given by him for his possession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to which sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. But the matter had always been on her mind. Might it not be her paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment? Might it not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend on what she might now learn from him? It was clear to her that he was brighter in spirit since his encounter with the Proudies than he had ever been since the accusation had been first made against him. And she knew well that his present mood would not be of long continuance. He would fall again into his moody silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from him would be past, and perhaps, for ever.
He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that she had never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity. After the service he stood a while at the churchyard gate, and exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the families of the farmers as had stayed for the Lord’s supper.
“I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six—so I did,” said farmer Mangle.
“I kept the road, and walked the whole way,” said Mr. Crawley, “I think I told you that I should not return to the mill. But I am not the less obliged by your great kindness.”
“Say nowt o’ that,” said the farmer. “No doubt I had business at the mill—lots to do at the mill.” Nor did he think that the fib he was telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he had just taken a part.
The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did much honour to the season, but it was a better dinner than the inhabitants of that house usually saw on the board before them. There was roast pork and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs. Crawley with her own hand put the meat upon the table, and then, as was her custom in their house, proceeded to cut it up, she looked at her husband’s face to see whether he was scrutinising the food with painful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she should be made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on the table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from Framley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, because people in the country, when they kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other pork—but do not exchange joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. All this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost wished that beef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less attention. He said, however, nothing to the meat; but when his wife proposed to him that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. “The bare food,” said he, “is bitter enough, coming as it does; but that would choke me.” She did not press it, but ate one herself, as otherwise her girl would have been forced also to refuse the dainty.
That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him some further questions. “You will have a lawyer, Josiah—will you not?”
“Why should I have a lawyer?”
“Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on the other side should be answered.”
“I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which questions should be answered. I have no money to pay a lawyer.”
“But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour, and our very life depend upon it—”
“Depend on what?”
“On your acquittal.”
“I shall not be acquitted. It is well to look it in the face at once. Lawyer or no lawyer, they will say that I took the money. Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I know now,”—and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into the air—”I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good. It is here. It is here.” And again he put his hands up to his head.
So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been brought in to introduce the subject.
“But, Josiah—”
“Well?”
It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment him by any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he should know that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him! “Josiah, where did it come from?”
“Yes,” said he; “yes; that is the question. Where did it come from?”—and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the power of his eyes. “It is because I cannot tell you where it came from that I ought to be—either in Bedlam, as a madman, or in the county gaol as a thief.” The words were so dreadful to her that she could not utter at the moment another syllable. “How is a man—to think himself—fit—for a man’s work, when he cannot answer his wife such a plain question as that?” Then he paused again. “They should take me to Bedlam at once—at once—at once. That would not disgrace the children as the gaol will do.”
Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening.